


Hereafter

by RosaTonta



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set during the timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaTonta/pseuds/RosaTonta
Summary: “Is this what you want?” He mutters, throat thick."Is it?"He repeats, though he’s not sure who he’s asking.The cost is just so great, to live on after your time is up.//Few of Bertolt's memories are useful to Armin, but all of them are painful. Eren manages to offer comfort, even if he doesn't know how to ask for it.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Hereafter

**Author's Note:**

> With the series ending soon, I wanted to get out at least one more little piece! Armin-centric, of course. I'm a bit insecure, because I definitely don't think it lives up to my previous work, "Aftersome." But still, I wanted to share! I hope you enjoy.

The sun sets so early these days, the brilliant reds and oranges lulled into a deep purple-black before they even realize it. They rose that morning before sunrise, greeted by the season’s first snow. They were gentle drifts, rising about to Armin’s knees where they worked together to clear pathways and roads. The shovels were broad and sturdy, harkening back to the first time they’d all done this together, in training. They’d been just past twelve when they enlisted. Now, in the winter of his seventeenth year, it feels impossible to be so young and so ignorant of the road ahead. But that’s not really it, isn’t it? So many sunrises and sunsets later and he doesn’t believe he’s changed much. He’s still so unsure, grasping wildly in the darkness for any purchase he can find. Hange is becoming a good actor. They get better each day at balancing the people around them, minimizing and obscuring Paradis’ weaknesses to the new Marleyans on the island. Diplomacy is the word. And while it’s certainly not a new one, the context is. To reach out with confidence, even when you can so quickly lose the upper hand. Even if you never had it in the first place. This is their new commander, and he has to take his cues from them. He can’t let them see him tremble. 

So Armin watches the sun set, quiet at his post. He tries not to lean his head against the rough brick. The watch will change soon, but until then he has to stand tall. They’re in the city, just for a few days. It’s a welcome reprieve from the hours spent laboring on new roads, new infrastructure, new towns. While there are plenty of civilians employed in the efforts, pitching in boosts morale and keeps them in shape. Their work will stall a bit, in this freeze. But they’ll press on. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. They have whole agricultural centers to restore, and he’s not sure if Sasha can wait one more day for the cattle to return to the fields. The thought almost makes him laugh, but it turns to a sigh instead. It leaves him in a small jet of mist and is quickly gone. He’s losing feeling in his fingers, his toes, the very tip of his nose. Even under the front eaves and out of direct snowfall, it teeters close to unbearable. It’s freezing, and he’s tired. He’s so, so tired. It seeps into his skin, burrows through muscle and sinew until it can crawl into the very centers of his bones. It’s in the marrow, this exhaustion. 

It isn’t that he can’t sleep. No, the days are shorter now but so packed with work. Piecing together the wooden frames of homes, negotiating with potential new Anti-Marleyan volunteers, learning just how much the outside world has to offer and how far behind they’ve fallen. All of these things keep him busy, sometimes well into the night. All his body ever wants is to rest. So, how funny is it to be punished for meeting his body’s needs? How like him to even _sleep_ wrong? He huffs at the thought, rolling his eyes. He’s past the point of bargaining, of desperation, and well settled into that familiar jagged anger. The blade of it is never pointed at anyone else, of course. Just himself. He feels it pricking at his side now, hard and cold. The jolt of it straightens his spine and he shakes his head. He can’t let them see him tremble, even if he hasn’t truly slept in days. He gets bits of rest, here and there, but he can only go so long before the dreams come. And once the dreams come, it’s all over. 

It began before they reached the city, in a small town springing back to life just past Wall Rose. It had boomed after Maria’s reclamation, civilians flocking for work in the rebuilding effort. Jobs were plentiful, and after years crowded behind Rose and Sina the open space felt like a miracle. The scouts had just been passing through, offering assistance in restoring a large building at the center of town. It had once been a military outpost, the stones crumbling apart where titans had reached in to claim their prizes. Now, under Historia’s new policy, it was to become a school. The entire east wing had collapsed and they’d decided the only way to deal with it in the time that they had was to use Eren. They’d cleared the area and his transformation was swift, lifting their materials and propping up new frames as if they were childrens’ toys. It was almost pleasant, to be towered over again after so much time sweating away in the colossal titan. They’d just completed training of their own closer to Maria, and there was some small comfort in the routine of Eren huffing down at him. At one point he’d bent so that Armin could relay instructions to him from the foreman, tilting his head to show he was listening. It was achingly familiar, and when Eren gently lifted Armin to the second floor scaffolding to pass another instruction along to the others, he’d almost not wanted to come back down. But of course, he did, climbing dutifully out of the nostalgic warmth of his hand and returning to his own tasks. The titan’s palm, a symbol of horror and death. A symbol of reconstruction and trust. It’s a place he shouldn’t feel so comfortable. 

There had been children, gathered as close as the corps would allow, watching Eren work in complete awe. Even in the swiftly-souring afternoon chill, their eyes shone so brightly. It had been impossible for Armin and Jean to pass without receiving their attention. 

“Hey! Hey, Sir!” A small girl called out, huddled beneath a too-large hand me down sweater. One of her front teeth was missing and she held tightly to the hand of an even smaller boy. 

They stopped, Jean offering a curious smile. “What is it?” Armin had learned that Jean was good with children when he shouldn’t have been. At least in small doses, the way one instinctively knows not to frighten a rabbit. 

“You’re with that great big titan!” 

Jean, Armin imagined, wasn’t loving all of the attention Eren spurred, but he carried it well for the girl. “Yes, we are. He’s going to have your school fixed up in no time.” 

“And you rode in his hand!” The girl turned to Armin now, eyes wide, “What was it like?” 

“Oh!” He chuckled, humoring her. “Well, it’s a bit scary at first. But you get used to it! We’ve had lots of practice.” 

“Really?” She beamed. 

“Really.” 

“You two look familiar.” An older boy chimed in, rubbing his chin with one gloved hand. His nose was bright red in the growing cold, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched delicately. 

“Oh?” Jean asked. 

“Oh, I know! The paper!” He nodded, snapping his fingers. “My Pa has a copy of the paper from years ago. When y’all got Maria back! It’s his prized possession. It has this drawing someone made of that fancy awards ceremony when y’all met the queen! What was she like?” 

“The queen is wonderful.” Armin supplied, “She’s wise and fair, and I think she has a great vision for our country.”

“So then, which one of you is the other one?” The girl asked, pushing her dark hair from her face. 

“The other what?” Jean raised an eyebrow. 

“The other titan! We’ve got two of them now, right? Is the other one here?” 

“Oh, that would be him.” Jean hooked his thumb towards Armin. 

“Whaaaat?” The children gasped nearly in unison. 

“That’s so _cool_!” 

“I can’t believe it!” 

“What does it feel like? Does it hurt?”

“How did it happen?” 

“It would be cool to be a titan one day! Could I help, too?” 

The questions nearly knocked Armin over, a wave of small voices chattering in excitement. They looked to him with an awe he’d seen before. It was the way Eren used to look at his book when they were younger, at the etchings of wide-mouthed estuaries and roaring waterfalls. The way his eyes shone when they spoke of the freedom beyond the walls. Except these children were looking at _him_. They were looking at Eren. They were looking toward titans. They didn’t see the fear and the suffering, Ymir’s thirteen cursed years. They didn’t know what he’d gone through to stand in this spot on this early winter day. They hadn’t been there to witness the decimation at Shiganisha. And they shouldn’t have been. They were children. Just like he had been, once. They didn’t know, they _couldn’t_ know. His throat went dry, hands worrying at his coat’s hem. 

“W-well, I…” 

“Sorry, kids. We’ve got a meeting with the commander. But if you stay put, you might catch Eren over there coming out of his titan in a bit!” Jean pointed toward the construction zone, taking Armin by the elbow. “We’ll be sure to say goodbye before we all leave.” 

“Aw, okay.” The girl nodded, turning back towards Eren. 

“Sorry about that,” Jean mumbled, leading him away. 

“I...No, no. It’s alright.” 

Jean didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either. 

That night, the dreams started. Of course, Armin was no stranger to nightmares. But these were different, visceral. He could feel the heavy thud of his pulse in his throat, his fingertips, his chest. It was all too bright and too real, and after the first night he realized that they were memories. And they were not his own. A sweltering heat, a desperate anger, a searing pain. The flashes expanded with each night into a wide vision of Shiganshina from above. Only this wasn’t his colossal, it was Bertolt’s. This was Bertolt Hoover’s final stand. The recollections rushed forward, forward, forward, towards a conclusion that Armin already knew. One that he didn’t want to see. It made his stomach roil and clench. The first night he saw the memories through to completion, he’d woken with a start and promptly rolled to his side and was sick over the edge of his bed. 

This sequence of memories isn’t like the others he’s seen. This one ends between Armin’s own giant gnashing teeth. 

Now, standing against the old brick building, it’s all he can do to keep his brain from looping the sickening wet snap of bones. The smell of death follows him into his waking hours, the sickly sweet earthen rot of it. It clings to him even now, a guilty second skin. It’s like he’s going to make himself ill all over again. He presses his palms into fists and takes a long breath in through his mouth. Blinking against a biting wind, he decides to listen to the sounds of the party inside. It’s been so long since they’ve celebrated like this. They’re in friendly territory, the night watch a formality more than anything. They’ve just had a successful meeting in the interior, negotiating budgets and plans for Paradis’ first rail lines. The Azumabitos had been there, offering schematics for the locomotives they built in Hizuru. They even planned to bring some samples back, for the military to reverse engineer their own copies. Someday, Armin hopes they won’t simply be staggering behind, left to replicate what has already been done by the rest of the world. But for now, it’s a start. Even some Anti-Marleyan volunteers are joining in, the drink flowing freely after the first warm, relaxed dinner in a long time. He can hear a piano starting up, someone yelling what must be the name of a foreign song. They’re so different, and yet have so many startling similarities. 

It doesn’t matter where you’re from, pianos play just the same. 

He hears the door open, the jaunty tune spilling out and plucking its way into his ears. But still, he startles just a little when Jean places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey,” 

“Oh, Jean! Hey.” 

Jean studies him, just for a moment. He’s noticed the darkening grey beneath his eyes, has learned to ask questions even without words. But Armin doesn’t answer. Finally, Jean clears his throat. “Well, it’s your turn to go warm up. I’ve got this next shift.” 

“Ah,” He nods, offering a small smile. “Thanks, I think I will.” 

"Try to get some rest, okay?” 

He nods, looking away. “Okay,” 

It’s a relief to fall into place by Mikasa’s side. That horrible scent still follows him, rich and rotten, but he can pretend he doesn’t notice it now. The large common room has been repurposed as a dining area, a fireplace roaring at the far end from the piano. It’s sweltering, almost, with so many people inside. He sheds his winter coat and she hands him a tankard. He takes a grateful sip only to realize it’s ale and not water with a raised eyebrow.

She merely shrugs, “The commander said it’s good for morale.” 

“Maybe a little too good,” Levi frowns from across the table, hunched over a steaming teacup. “We’re still getting up early whether everyone’s hungover or not.” 

“At least if we have to shovel the roads again, it’ll wake everyone up.” Armin supposes, congenial. 

“Yeah, and if any of them puke, it’ll be outside and it won’t be my problem.”

“That, too.” He nods, scanning the room. “Um...what are they doing?” He points towards the front, where Connie and Sasha are taking turns swinging each other in wild circles. Her foot nearly catches a new recruit in the gut and she cackles wildly. 

“Dancing,” Mikasa supplies. She’s been watching him carefully since he came back, in that quiet way of hers. She knows he doesn’t like to be fussed over, but old habits are hard to break. And after nearly losing him, he can’t be too upset if her gaze lingers or if she offers help on reflex. She sips at her own drink, hand coming to rest on his arm as if to make sure he’s actually there. She shifts her gaze, watching Sasha pick Connie up and spin him around.

A few red-faced Anti-Marleyans have joined them near the piano. Yelena isn’t there, of course. None of the Anti-Marleyan leaders are, or perhaps it wouldn’t be so relaxed. It’s merely a few ex-Marley engineers and construction specialists. They sing along, words in a tongue Armin can’t understand, but loud and exuberant. Newer scouts eventually file suit curiously before being swept up into Connie and Sasha’s infectious energy. It’s nice like this, the warmth and the noise and the company. It’s so different from memory’s edge, pressing tightly against his chest until he can barely breathe. It plunges its long fingers, stiff and corpse-cold, down his throat until it can reach his heart and _squeeze_. It's most powerful in the night’s shadow, in the quiet. When he’s alone. 

“You look tired,” Mikasa comments, and if her fingers tighten on his forearm, he doesn’t mention it. 

“Mmm,” He hums, “We did get up at sunrise to shovel all that snow, you know.” To worry her feels akin to a crime. There is so _much_ to worry about these days: Marley, modernization, the other titan shifters… Eren. Ever since that day, when they first saw the ocean together, he’s been in a slow metamorphosis. Sometimes he’s right there, and yet not. Sometimes Armin has to say something twice before Eren can shake away whatever it is that grips him and hear it. He’s quieter now, less prone to bickering with Jean. Less likely to stroll over and wrap an arm around Armin’s shoulder. But other times, he’s so much the same that Armin feels he’s been hallucinating it all. Mikasa’s noticed too, he’s sure. 

“Yes,” She allows, “We did.” 

“Where’s Eren?” 

Her gaze flickers down, towards the table. “He went to bed already.” 

“Ah,” So it’s one of those nights, is it? The kind of night where their best friend acts nearly as a stranger. He watches as her forehead crinkles, lips set in a line. He rests his hand atop hers. “Let’s join them.” 

“What?”

“Let’s dance,” He clarifies, before he can be struck by just how impulsive and embarrassing it is. Why did he say that? What is he doing? 

He wants to shake the melancholy from her like dust from a tablecloth, if only for a moment. He stands, taking a gentle hold of her hand. She follows him, Levi raising an eyebrow at their backs. Fear’s painful grip is an ever-present inevitability. But it’s loosened its grasp enough for him to send her a soft smile as they wedge themselves between Connie and a group of drunken Anti-Marleyans. It's some kind of waltz now, they can recognize the tempo even if they don’t know the song. Neither of them are very good and Armin has to focus to not step on her feet as he shows her the way. Her hand is feather-light on his shoulder and they’re nearly bowled over when Sasha decides she wants to be dipped even though this isn’t the song for it. It’s so like them that even Mikasa wears the ghost of a smile.

He ends up letting her lead. 

“Did you get to speak much with Miss Kiyomi after the meeting?” 

“A little,” She nods, barely heard over the music and shouting, “She really does keep saying they want me to go with them some day.” 

He doesn’t pry about whether or not she’s convinced. “That’s good, isn’t it? You have a family, Mikasa.” 

Her gaze softens, “I’ve always had one.” 

The music is still going when he excuses himself to bed. In the upstairs hallway, it’s muffled a little. The lamps here are dim, casting weak dancing shadows across old oak floorboards. The smell is back, cloying like a great bowl of fruit that has turned. It conjures the image of wet putrification, of mushrooms sprouting from his very pores with their poisonous little caps.

He’s going to die in just eleven years now. It isn’t something they like to talk about. Even after Eren brought it up the first time, it was seldom addressed directly again. The truth will set you free, he used to believe. He supposes he still does. But the price is so great, to grasp the freedom to know one’s own fate. It comes to him in the smallest moments, sharing hot tea with Mikasa on a cold night or quietly cleaning gear with Jean at sundown. There’s so much to be left behind so soon. There’s such precious little time. The winter days growing shorter only seem to throw that constriction into sharp relief. He’s signed away his life in a pact with the devil, and isn’t that just what he deserves? Isn’t it, after what he did to Bertolt? They’ll kill him before his time is up, of course. They’ll feed him to the next in line. It’s a cycle without end, the cost of total control over this power. They suffer the same fate, regardless of which side of the sea from which they come. But who will it be that they curse next? Who will one day have these memories? He swallows thickly and thinks of that little girl, asking if one day she can become a titan, too. If one day, she can help. He has to stop with his hand on the doorknob, blinking blearily in the dark. One breath, two breaths, three breaths. 

Is this really helping? 

Is _any_ of this helping? Relying on this power, holding the world hostage, going along with Yelena’s plans. Is it really _helping_? Is it freedom to demand Historia bear children not from love, but from some twisted necessity? How different are they from Marley, really, if they begin to groom children for this fate? If the Reiss family already has been? They really are staggering behind, left to replicate what has already been done by the rest of the world. He can’t stomach the thought. This can’t be it.

The knob twists beneath his hand and the door opens. 

“Armin?” Eren blinks in the dim light, already in his nightclothes. 

“Oh,” He nods, “Hey.” 

“I heard your footsteps, but then you never opened the door, so I…” 

“Ah, right. Sorry, I was just thinking about something.” 

Eren doesn’t pry, stepping aside to let him in. They’re sharing quarters, the scouts doubled and tripled up into rooms which were once used to house refugees who have long returned beyond Wall Rose. It’s a tight space, a dresser beneath a small window on the opposite end. Two single beds flank the right and left walls, respectively. There’s a small basin for washing, but he’s already taken care of all of that. By the looks of it Eren has too, his hair still hanging heavy around his head. It’s longer now, just about past his chin. He’s still standing, and Armin can feel his gaze upon him as he changes into his own nightclothes. It’s difficult, the squirming feeling that gives him. They’ve seen each other dress and undress so many times, but for some reason Eren’s eyes feel like sniper sights at his back. What’s perhaps worse, he can’t tell if he finds it unpleasant...or if some small part of him likes it.

“How were things?” 

Armin shivers a little, far from the great roaring fire in the common room. He can’t slide on his sweater fast enough. “Ah...downstairs? Things were fine. They’re still going at it, but I know Captain Levi wants us up in the morning, so…” He turns around, running his fingers nervously through his damp hair, but he offers a smile. “Connie and Sasha started dancing, and that convinced a bunch of the others to join in.” 

“I can hear it,” He nods, and it’s true. The building isn’t so large as to dampen the noise entirely. In fact, it must be going on right beneath their feet. It’s muffled, but the individual notes are still clear. 

“Did you dance?” 

“Yeah. With Mikasa, for a bit.” His ears redden, “I wasn’t very good.” 

“Really?” Eren steps forward, tilting his head. “I bet Connie and Sasha were worse.” 

“Maybe,” He shakes his head, “I don’t know, we tried to waltz.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Well, I don’t really know. I’ve seen people do it once or twice. It’s in a Marleyan book I read, too. But I’m sure we were doing it wrong.” It’s a style of dance, deceptively simple as it may be, that has never before been known to them. He’d seen it in a book aboard one of the ships they’d taken, in a section about military balls. 

“Show me,” 

Armin freezes, “What?” 

“Show me how you did it.” The command isn’t really a command. His voice is quiet, but he lacks that increasingly familiar faraway look. He appears...curious, holding out a hand. “You said it was in one of your books, right?” 

“I— I mean, yes. But—” 

“So, it couldn’t have been that bad.” He takes one of Armin’s hands in his and their fingers intertwine like they have so many times before. He’s warm, cutting through the ambient chill and luring Armin subconsciously closer. When Eren’s like this, Armin hardly has the will to deny him anything anymore. 

He swallows, placing his free hand between Eren’s shoulder blades. “You...um, rest your other hand on my shoulder.” He nods when Eren obeys, “Stand with your feet hip width apart. Then you step back with your right foot first and try to follow my lead.” 

They begin, bare feet quietly ghosting across the floor. They can feel the vibrations from the singing downstairs as they move, and it must be getting late now but the last thing Armin wants to think about is the bed waiting behind him with an open maw. He takes one, two, three deep breaths and forces himself to look into Eren’s face. The planes of it, the high cheeks and almond eyes, have always been beautiful. His jawline is sharper now, his hands larger and firm against him. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Like we’re making a square.” He encourages. 

When their gazes lock and Eren gives a small, concentrated nod, it’s as if someone has opened the curtains in a dim room. Armin wants to sag under the weight of the relief, would if not for the dance. This is someone who means something, not just to the world, but to him. There’s intimacy in the small things. In the way Eren’s tongue sticks out when he’s focused, in the heat of his hand on Armin’s shoulder, in the way they know to adjust their grips to keep their interlaced fingers comfortable. He’s uncertain why Eren’s asked for something so frivolous, if it’s because he’s noticed the growing shadows beneath his eyes or how he holds his body taught as a bowstring. Maybe he was simply bored, lured by the idea of something new? Armin won’t ask. But he appreciates it regardless, comforted by the fact that Eren can’t possibly be as different as he fears if he’s still right here holding his hand. When the song ends, there’s raucous applause. They freeze, a breath away. They should let go. At least one of them should. It’s late, and even the drunks downstairs seem to be calling it a night. But he doesn’t want to. 

“Armin, I—” Eren hesitates on some great unknown thing. His brows furrow, and Armin hates the look of it. He always has. He wants to cultivate a garden between them, to become a place where something fresh and beautiful can grow from rot and shame. 

There’s a moment, just one small sliver of time, when Eren’s eyes dart down to his mouth. He licks his own lips before biting down on the lower one. This closeness wasn’t unusual in the past, but grows more precarious with each sunrise. Armin cannot bring himself to pull away, to question. Not when the thing he’s so desperately afraid of losing is being freely offered. Finally, Eren leans his forehead against his and they breathe together. Armin had read once that even the trees respirate. How beautifully interconnected, this tapestry life has chosen to weave. 

Eventually, Eren pulls back. “We should go to bed.” 

Armin nods, dazed, and they retreat to their separate sides of the room. Eren settles in, his bed frame groaning. Armin can’t help but hesitate at his mattress. His pulse sings in his throat, the thrum shaking up his spine and into his teeth. It tries to tell him something, but he can’t understand the language. He sits, feet firmly planted against the floor, and feels as though there is a thread connecting them. It’s tenuous and fragile as gossamer. Either one of them could sever it, perhaps even by accident. Something hangs in the air, taking the terrible, unknowable shape of whatever it was that Eren hadn’t said. Of whatever it is that Armin can’t. 

When Eren turns out the lamp, Armin decides simply to lie down. 

It’s too hot. It’s too hot and he’s too injured to resist, the very attachments between muscle and bone crying out. He’d turned down any foolish offer to talk, severed the connections between them all forever just as he probably should’ve done from the start. Reiner...he got out of hand. He shouldn’t have let him delve into this fantasy of camaraderie for so long. It’s only weakened them in the end, hasn’t it? Perhaps Annie had been right. 

There is no more time to grieve lost potential. There is no more running. The blunt bloodied stumps where his limbs should be are sluggish to repair themselves. All this power does now is stitch him up just fast enough to not bleed to death, a merciful ending compared to what he knows is coming next. A tinny acrid taste in the back of his throat only grows stronger as he begs for his life, futile and weeping like a child. The flesh in his trachea is shredded with the effort of it and he’s forced to watch those he’d once been cruel enough to call his comrades plant their feet and turn their gazes away. The hand that grips him _squeezes_ and he’s lifted above sagging tiled roofs. The rush of air around him as he loses solid ground is as terrifying as it is sudden. 

If Annie and Reiner could see him...it would be such a familiar sight.

He screams and begs for help, and the irony of it isn’t lost on him. But it’s all he can do, a rabbit caught in a bloodied steel trap. A trap he’d helped construct. It closes around him, the massive shadows of teeth casting his face in darkness. He’s flipped on his side, lined up perfectly beneath unyielding incisors. Half-formed thoughts tear through him, the impressions of so many emotions and regrets that he doesn’t have time to fully grasp. This is what they’ve fought for. He’s purchased his family’s status and he wonders if the cost was too much. If they always knew this was a possibility, but sent him anyways. Panic-stricken, he calls Reiner’s name until the pressure is just too much. The fear rips from him until his skin bursts and there’s nothing but blinding pain. Until he’s nothing but meat. 

The agony is always over quickly, at least. 

Armin would scream, but he’s choking and gasping instead. He still feels that hand around him —his hand— constricting and binding him to an unavoidable fate. Sitting up, he places his hand on his chest and feels it shake against the flannel. The sun is nowhere near rising, but it’s over for him now. He cannot shut his eyes, he cannot return to that memory. 

“Is this what you want?” He mutters, throat thick. Tears blur his vision, though there isn’t much to see in the night. A spike of anger pierces his side, but he’s unsure if it’s towards Bertolt or himself. Bertolt is gone. He can’t possibly be doing this on purpose. No, the great enemy here is Armin himself. Why does he keep revisiting this memory? Torturing himself with the raw misery and terror of it? Perhaps because he’s been thinking too much about his own future, about the inevitability of everything. “Is it?” He repeats, though he’s not sure who he’s asking. 

“Armin…?” 

“Ah…” He sniffs, wiping roughly at his eyes, “Sorry, go back to sleep.” 

Eren’s footfalls signal that he isn’t listening, of course. “What’s…?” His voice is deep and gravelly with sleep. 

“It was only a dream.” He replies, hating the way his tone wavers on the excuse. He’s so pathetically transparent. It’s as if he’s cracked open his ribs to display his jackrabbiting heart, electrified with fear in the dark. “I’m alright.” 

Eren’s weight dips the mattress, blessedly warm and close. “You haven’t been sleeping.” 

“Eren, I—”

He cuts him off, “I told Mikasa not to worry over you. I know you don't like it.” 

“I don’t.” 

“But you don’t have to lie to me, either.” 

“It _was_ just a dream.” 

“About what?” 

The silence that stretches between them is excruciating, slowly robbing Armin of the ability to calm himself as he tries to find the right words. The blade of it drags through his flesh, cleaving him apart until all he can do is tremble and breathe. Eren’s hand finds his. 

Finally, Armin speaks. “Memories,” 

“What?”

“They were memories.” 

“Bertolt’s?” 

He nods, “I’ve been seeing the same ones on loop since...well, over a week now.” 

“What are they?” 

Now that, he doesn’t want to talk about. He hates it, the idea of going back there and hoisting the recollections up like a corpse from the bottom of a well. It makes his breath come quicker, a sharp inhale followed by a pointed exhale. The smell of decay is startling in this small space, following him up from that horrible nightmare. It’s pungent and rank, blackening the air. It’s not _real_ , he knows it. But it might as well be. He wants to cover his nose, but instead shakes his head. 

“Okay,” Eren settles, dragging his thumb slowly across the backs of Armin’s fingers. “That’s okay.” 

“It wasn’t anything useful.”

Eren hums, quiet and low. He brings his open palm to Armin’s cheek and tilts his face up to meet his gaze. They can see each other’s silhouettes, find the shine of each other’s eyes. “You’re shaking.”

It doesn’t require an answer. It’s a simple statement of truth. The air runs cold in the early December night, but the warmth between them grows as Eren leans closer. He steadies his grip on Armin’s hand and it slowly goes still. Then he’s dropping his head, lowering his gaze, and even if Armin has suspicions about where he’s going, he can’t in a thousand years give into that desperate hope. Despite himself, despite the denial and the discipline, Armin meets him halfway. 

Their lips are dry, chapped from the wind and the cold. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Armin’s spent so long fearing the inevitability of everything, that he’s never stopped to consider the inevitability of _this_. It’s like they’ve done this one thousand times before. Like they were born to be here in this moment, in this old room in the dark. When Eren pulls away and searches Armin’s face, as if checking for approval, it’s all Armin can do to take a steadying breath and invite him back for more. It’s not a fiery thing, so much as a warm thing. A blissful thing. He remembers the yearning to plant a garden between them that can live on long after they’re gone. A garden of hope, of redemption, of freedom. 

Eren slips under the covers and pulls him close to his side with a fierceness that would surprise him if he hadn’t felt it so intensely, so keenly in his own bones. It’s almost confusing, to be so surprised and yet so sure this was always going to happen. Armin sighs and Eren presses his lips to his mouth, his jaw, his temple. If he’d opened the curtains before, now he’s opened the whole window. The air is breathable again. This peace isn’t permanent, but Armin will take it. Their eyes flutter shut, but they wouldn’t need sight to know each other’s bodies anyways. Of this, they’re both certain. Armin hums and cups Eren’s face in his hands. Pressing together, they kiss until the very movement of it becomes slow and sleepy. They hardly fit in the bed together. They haven’t been small children in a long time. But Eren makes no move to leave. He _stays_. Not out of obligation, as Armin’s insecurities would deceive him, but because he wants to. Because he belongs. He stays, and Armin anchors himself to his side and basks in the warmth of it. They breathe slowly together, as they have since childhood. It’s an old familiar sound that he could pick from a vast crowd by now. He knows Eren, doesn’t he?

They don’t speak again, Eren shifting until Armin rests his head against his chest. He slings his arm across Eren’s waist and sighs. This is why they are here. They are a shout of determination, surrendering to hope in the dark. It’s always been like this, and oh what he’d give for it to always be. But for now, this is enough. 

When sleep claims him again, Eren’s hand dragging warm and rhythmic through his hair, the dreams do not come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this far! If you have any comments/feedback, please let me know! I'm always looking to improve and curious to know people's thoughts. I love EMA so much and it shows!! I also wrote this very hastily, and imo that also shows. Hah. This was a bit corny at times, but I was Having Fun. I am so very attached to Armin that I'm just sort of enjoying what time I have left to play in the sandbox with him. (': 
> 
> You can find me @ peachpitss on tumblr, as well as under my second pseud here, honeynpeaches ! I just keep posting my snk works here because it feels Right, since this is where I originally got into it as a teen. I have a twitter as well, @ eatingpeachpits but I don't post much snk on it. ): 
> 
> Please take care and stay safe! <3


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